November 2016 Mystery Weekly by Mystery Weekly Magazine

Author:Mystery Weekly Magazine
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: http://www.mysteryweeky.com
Published: 2016-11-03T18:14:46+00:00

On the night the deed was to go down, I picked Larissa up early from her job as manager of a perfume boutique on Sussex Avenue. I pitched it as a surprise dinner out to celebrate our three-week wedding anniversary. We went to Cuban Pete’s, a crowded restaurant full of pot-bellied waiters in bow ties and lots of witnesses. Larissa ordered fish soup and I had the spicy chorizo. I even splurged and got a bottle of Paso a Paso ’92.

Midway through, I checked my watch. It was 8 o’clock. Within the hour, my mother-in-law’s palpable hatred of me would be introduced to the undercarriage of a leaky Buick Grand Marquis. I raised my glass of wine and said to Larissa, “To our future.”

My wife took a dainty sip and, out of nowhere, said, “You wouldn’t hurt my mother, would you?”

Half the wine I just drank slid straight into my windpipe. I coughed and gasped for air, struggling to hack out the word caught in my throat: “W-What?”

“I mean, you wouldn’t kill her or anything like that?”

By now, I was pounding on my chest with the flat of my hand. “Kill?” I sputtered. “Did you say kill?” I hurriedly found my glass of water and took a swig.

“Like run her over with a car, maybe?”

I spit out the water in a cloudy spray, right onto my plate of chorizo. I was in a full choke mode by now and had attracted the undivided attention of every nearby table. I even had to wave off a waiter coming to my rescue.

“That’s what my mother said you were going to do to her,” Larissa said, oblivious to my panic and death throes.

My mind was churning as I struggled to regain composure. I quickly decided anger was the best defense. In a harsh whisper, I demanded, “What in the world makes your mother think I want to kill her?”

“She called me yesterday,” Larissa said. “She said her palm reader—Madam Katya—told her to beware of her new son-in-law. That you were planning to run her over with a car.”

“Madam Katya? For Christ’s sake, Larissa, you can’t tell me you believe this?”

My wife was giggling now. “Of course not, silly. But my mother’s old school. She’s superstitious to a fault.”

“More like certifiable,” I said. “You know what she’s doing, right? She’s out to get me, to poison you against me, and this is only the beginning.”

Larissa shook her head emphatically. “She actually said the reading opened her eyes. She wants to bury the hatchet.”

“Where? The crown of my skull?”

“Seriously. She told me she wants to try again. Brunch at Petrossian’s this Thursday. Her treat.”

I sighed, leaned back in my chair and regarded my soupy chorizo. Outside, the distant sound of a car horn blended with the screech of tires. I sat straight up. My eyes and mouth gaped wide open. “I totally forgot,” I said quickly. “I’ve got to make a phone call. About the job.”

“What job?”

“What do you mean, what job? My job. What else would I be talking about?”

“So make the call.

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